Tick tock, Drip drop
by The Red Fedora
Summary: "Did you know that a man will die if he loses five pints of blood?" A chilling story for Halloween.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: SHERLOCK belongs to BBC America and the immortal Sherlock Holmes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle..I make no claim on them._

_Author's note: This story was inspired by a line from the classic _Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon_ starring Basil Rathbone as Holmes and Nigel Bruce as Watson. I love the original stories and nearly every film and tv version created since. SHERLOCK is truly a work of genius. _Many thanks to my friend and editor, Beth, for her assistance with this story. Hope you enjoy. _Without further ado, I give you Tick, Tock..Drip, drop…_

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><p><em>Did you know that a man will die if he loses five pints of blood? – Sherlock Holmes &amp; the Secret Weapon<em>

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><p>The first thing Sherlock was aware of was a sharp throbbing pain in his head. It originated from a point just behind his left ear; the radius of the pain, both external as well as internal, suggested that he had been struck by something…something rather large and rather heavy. A club perhaps…<p>

His high pale forehead wrinkled in confusion as he slowly became aware of a second fact…he could not move. Ice blue eyes flew open…and were greeted by a blackness as dark as Indian ink. Sherlock closed his useless eyes, forcing back the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. Panic would only inhibit his mind and he needed to think. He forced a slow deep breath into his lungs, releasing it slowly as his mind began to clear; he began to test the limit of his suspected paralysis, beginning at the crown of his head and moving toward the soles of his feet. He found that while he could not move his limbs nor his head, he could move his eyes…his fingers…and his toes. Not full paralysis then…most likely brought on by some sort of drug jabbed at the base of his neck, he theorized from the small pinprick of pain he still felt.

His body felt sluggish and heavy…and cold. Not a frigid cold…indoors then, perhaps in an insulated room as he could neither hear the late autumn winds nor the rain that he could recall from earlier that day… Whomever his captor was, he had not left him to freeze to death. The temperature of the room was hardly dangerous, just a bit uncomfortable. He paused briefly as he wondered if it was indeed still October the 31st. The oppressive darkness of the room provided no clue. Tabling the thought for the current moment, Sherlock continued with his assessment. The surface he was lying on was cold as well…and hard, nearly uncomfortably so. Metal most likely…a table of some sorts. His scarf and jacket were both missing. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up to expose his forearms, which rested uselessly at his sides. The remainder of his clothing seemed to be untouched, including his boots.

Sherlock drew another slow breath in through his nose, this time carefully analyzing the smell of the room. His forehead furrowed in concentration as he began to sort them...the sharp bite of heavy industrial strength cleaner…dry wall dust…the noxious smell of out-gasing plastics, perhaps heavy plastic sheeting…and a lingering scent of mildew. The dry wall dust was the strongest and therefore likely the most recent…the plastics the second, the combination suggesting that he was in a building currently under renovation. It was not a new building…no one used industrial cleaner in a building that had not yet been completed. The scent was faint…suggesting that the last cleaning had taken place long before the construction began. The mildew confirmed it…an old building then. A frustrated sigh broke the stillness of the room. London was an old city…more than half of it was undergoing some sort of renovation at any given moment.

_Think, man, think!_

He set aside the question of where he was and considered the question of why he had been taken. He had no open cases. In fact he only just closed a case in Scotland, an interesting little puzzle involving a band of smugglers operating out of the port of Inverness in the Highlands. The cargo had varied from works of art to military grade weaponry to human cargo, depending on the client and the size of his wallet. The most intriguing factor had been the method in which the goods had been transported to the coast from the south. By train, then by lorry and finally by submersible…through the lochs. They might have managed to evade the authorities a good while longer had it not been for the carelessness of one crew in particular. Sherlock had quickly made the connection between the increase in 'monster' sightings and the arrival schedules of the ships suspected of carrying contraband. It took only a simple matter of deduction to determine where the smugglers hoard was located. The case itself had been on an elementary level as far as complexity…despite the small flair of dramatics it had provided. The officials were considering it a major victory, and yet Sherlock could not help but feel as if he had missed something…something very important. John had suggested that it was just the letdown of another case completed…but he knew it was more than that. More like the strong feeling of apprehension that a mouse might have when a cat is approaching… Try as he might, he found himself unable to ignore it. He had parted ways with John at Kings Cross Station, as his flatmate was eager to see his fiancée after a two week absence. He had continued then on to Baker Street alone.

The ever present rain had been accompanied by a cold wind, though it had felt balmy compared to that of Scotland. The flat had been dark when he entered, though he had thought nothing of it at the time. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned that she planned to visit her sister in Bristol for an extended period of time; the lack of umbrella, pink overcoat and wellingtons by the front door, as well as the slightly stale smell in the air suggested that she had already done so. He had left the light off as he made his way up the well known stairs to the flat. He remembered opening the door and entering the room…and then nothing. A small frown creased his thin lips…obviously his abduction was no random act. Very few men would have the guts to abduct him from his own flat which, since the events of what John had referred to as 'The Great Game', had been under the careful watch of both Scotland Yard and agents of the British government. The Yard might have relaxed their surveillance during his absence; however he was certain that Mycroft would not have relaxed his. Perhaps his brother's hired hands had grown lax. He wondered how long it would take for them to realize that he had been taken literally out from under their noses. Mycroft would have their badges, if not their heads, when it was discovered.

A cold chill inched up his spine as he considered the only man likely to have orchestrated such a daring act of devilry. Sherlock winced in pain as a blinding light appeared above him without warning, burning through his eyelids as the throbbing in his skull increased. His blood ran cold as a disembodied voice spoke from the darkness beyond the edge of the light.

"Hello, Sweetheart. Did you miss me?"

Blue eyes opened into thin slits, watching as a thin shadow detached itself from the rest, stepping forward into the light. There was a soft whisper of shoe rubber on cement floor and then a face appeared in the space above him. The smile plastered on the thin pale face seemed friendly enough but the eyes were cold…cunning…deadly. The eyes of a snake…of a predator toying with its prey…

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…," Moriarty said with a mock sigh. "Why couldn't you just have been a good little boy and left it alone?"

Sherlock struggled against the drugs in his system, but to no avail. He was helpless to do little more than watch as the sociopath reached out with a cold, pale hand and idly ran his fingertips along the side of his face. The man grinned as he flinched beneath the touch, unable to move away. With a final tap of a finger to Sherlock's nose, Moriarty withdrew his hand and moved out of his line of vision.

"You have brought this upon yourself, you know." Moriarty chided softly. "I take no joy in killing you. You made life interesting. You made it almost…fun."

The voice grew further away for a moment and then closer, this time from his left. Sherlock deduced that the man was circling the table.

"However, you have become too much of a nuisance…"

Sherlock forced himself not to react as the man appeared suddenly in the space above his head, his hands braced against the table on either side. The cold eyes smiled tightly. "I cannot have your constant interference...your actions in Scotland alone have resulted in the loss of several important clients as well as a small fortune." He sighed, and dipped his head closer. "You have forced my hand…and so, regretfully, I have decided that I am going to have to kill you." He whispered dramatically before pushing back and out of sight once more.

"Now I know what you must be thinking. _Why didn't he just shoot me when he had the chance?_" The voice mimicked. "It would have been so simple, too simple…a gun…a sharp blade…or perhaps a little poison in your tea…"

The sociopath paused in his monologue and, to his left, Sherlock heard the sharp metallic squeak of the wheels of a trolley. The sound paused, as Moriarty appeared beside him. A small tremor ran up his spine as the man's soulless eyes caressed his face. "We are unique, you and I. You have been a worthy adversary…..and so you are worthy of a far more inventive death…something special."

A cold hand closed around his forearm, and he felt a sharp prick and then the pressure of a needle as it slid beneath his skin. Sherlock fought to press down the fear that he felt rising within him; he would not provide his adversary the satisfaction. His one small relief was that John had not been with him in the flat…and was not with him now.

"You should feel honored, you know. I designed this ingenious little game just for you. It is quite inventive really…an experiment which you, as a scientist, should appreciate." The man reappeared at his side with a length of narrow tubing coiled loosely in his now gloved fist. "We begin by attaching this length of tubing to the IV port in your arm," The cold smile grew as his eyes darkened into a dark shade of flint. "We then attach the remaining end to this lovely little hour glass."

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the large glass structure he assumed sat on top the trolley he had heard a moment ago. "And then the fun begins. I will drain the blood from your body…drop by drop."

Moriarty handed the tubing to an unseen assistant beyond Sherlock's line of sight and placed his hands casually within the pockets of his overcoat. "As I am a sporting man, and I can't stand to see any animal suffer, I have decided to give your loyal pet one last chance to save you." He loomed closer to the helpless detective until his nose was inches from Sherlock's, his smile widening as he read the repulsion in his captive's eyes. "Your blood will drain at a rate of one pint per hour. Five pints is all it will take…five small pints and the great Sherlock Holmes will be no more."

Sherlock closed his eyes as Moriarty vanished once more, his cruel laughter echoing in the room.

"Let us hope that your dog is smarter than he appears."


	2. Chapter 2

_8:00 pm October 31__st_

John Watson had a nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong.

The feeling had begun sometime between the Scottish border and London and had been growing steadily stronger since. He had managed to ignore it at first, dismissing the feeling as a byproduct of the rather stressful case which he and Sherlock had closed the night before. It was no wonder that the events had left them both a bit unsettled, not that his flatmate would admit it; after all it was not every day that one nearly drowned in one of the worlds' most famous lochs whilst trapped inside a replica of its most beloved 'monster'. It was not an experience that John was eager to repeat.

He shivered as he recalled the bone numbing cold of the dark waters of Loch Ness. Of the near death experiences he'd had in his lifetime, including the one which had ended his military career, this had been one of the most frightening…perhaps only second to the incident at the pool, nearly two years prior, at the climax of the case which his blog now referred to as 'The Great Game'. Moriarty had not shown his face since that night; however his influence was still very much evident in the seemingly random workings of the criminal underworld…like a spider spinning a complex web, slowly and carefully, luring its prey into a state of calm before closing its trap.

Sherlock was no fool…a fact which John attributed to the reason that they were both still breathing. He knew that his friend suspected Moriarty's hand in the workings of their last case, and though he doubted that the man had been directly involved with the incident that had nearly claimed their lives, John had to agree that the elaborate plot had contained elements of the man's flair for the dramatics. He knew it was only a matter of time before Moriarty would show his face again; sooner or later he would grow tired of Sherlock's consistent interference…and if and when the two masterminds did meet again, John knew deep within his gut that only one would survive. He vowed to do everything within his power to make certain that one would be Sherlock Holmes.

John released a slow breath through his nose as he considered their parting at the station earlier that evening. The distant look in the detective's pale eyes had only served to intensify his concern, as did his distracted manner. Judging from the dark smudges beneath Sherlock's eyes, as well as the small collection of empty cardboard teacups left behind on the train, John doubted that the his friend had slept at all. Not that he blamed him. His rest had been uneasy as well…with dreams plagued by machine gun toting Loch Ness monsters attempting to drown him in an oversized vat of malted whisky. A small grin creased his lips at the thought.

A small part of him still felt poorly for abandoning Sherlock at the station, particularly in his present state of mind; though his offer to reschedule with Mary had been received with a thin smile from his flatmate, accompanied by both an assurance that he could see to himself and a request that he be left alone. With that Sherlock had bid him a good night, along with a half in jest warning to be on the watch for ghouls and goblins, before vanishing into the depths of the London Underground.

That had been over two hours ago.

A small frown tugged at the corners of his mouth as John activated his smart phone. The empty screen stared back at him, mockingly. No new messages. His frown deepened. Despite Sherlock's acceptance of Mary's increasingly permanent role in John's life, the man rarely went for more than an hour without sending some sort of annoying text when he was not involved with a case…and yet there were none. John forced himself to set the mobile down and relax. With his luck the detective was probably caught up in some new experiment…something vile, most likely…and, with John's luck, difficult to clean up.

Sherlock's last round of tests had left long dark scorch marks, along with shards of glass, embedded in the ceiling of the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson had not been happy, to say the least, and neither had John as he had spent one of his rare free days assisting his flatmate in repairing the damage. Between Sherlock's experiments and the occasional occupational hazard, nearly half of the flat had undergone at least three major renovations and countless minor ones in the past three years. A small smile replaced the frown at the memories; he would miss the insanity when he moved out following his marriage to Mary that coming spring. Though there was a certain attraction to having the ability to open one's refrigerator without the concern that random body parts might fall out.

"What is so amusing?"

A warm smile slid across his lips as his fiancée set the large bowl of candy on the low coffee table before reclaiming her place beside him on the couch. He welcomed her with open arms, drawing her closer as he greeted her with soft kiss.

"I missed you." He murmured.

Mary's answering smile sent a rush of warmth through him, chasing away the lingering feeling of uneasiness. She had always seemed to have that affect on him; his ray of sunshine in a dark world...and he thanked the good Lord every day for the case which had brought her into his life. It seemed like only yesterday when he had walked into the Baker Street flat to find Sherlock in conference with a beautiful, but distraught young woman. He had barely listened as the detective had rattled off the facts regarding Miss Mary Morestan and her intriguing problem. One look into her cornflower blue eyes and he was lost forever. A family secret revealed, a treasure lost and eight months later he had asked her to be his…and to his relief and delight, she had accepted.

"I was only gone for a moment." She teased.

John grinned as he brushed a kiss against her jaw. "To a man in love, a moment is a lifetime."

She let out a soft snort at his remark, but surrendered willingly as he captured her lips once more. A loud buzz sounded from the table beside them, echoed by the melodic chime of the door buzzer. John groaned in protest.

"It's extortion, that's what it is…giving the little monsters bribes." He muttered as he released her.

She brushed a kiss against the tip of his nose, before sliding off of the couch and collecting the bowl of candy on her way toward the door.

"I'll take care of the monsters. Say hello to Sherlock for me and thank him for returning you in one piece as he promised." She called over her shoulder with a cheeky grin.

John shook his head as he reached forward and retrieved his mobile.

"I'll do nothing of the sort." He called after her. "The man already has an ego the size of the London Eye. I refuse to feed it any further."

His eyebrows furrowed as he considered the number on the screen. It was unlisted…could be a prank, particularly on a night such as this. He activated the message in the off chance that it was his flatmate as Sherlock had a habit of 'borrowing' phones that did not belong to him. His smile faded as he read the words scrawled across the small screen. The uneasy feeling returned.

_It is nearing the bewitching hour…do you know where your master is?_

A second message followed…a video.

oOo

The room had grown perceptively colder…or perhaps it was only the sense of dread Sherlock had felt at Moriarty's pronouncement that made it feel so. He was not afraid to die. On the contrary, he was often amazed by the fact that he had managed to live as long as he had; a fact he attributed to his few, but loyal friends rather than by his own doing…Mrs. Hudson…Lestrade…his brother…John… A part of him wished that he had told them so when he'd had the chance. It was too late now. Sherlock swallowed tightly against the lump which had lodged itself in his throat. Even so…death was a part of life and he had long since made peace with it. It would do him no good to dwell on regrets.

He forced his features to remain void of emotion as a delighted chuckle echoed from the dark shadows which obscured his nemesis.

"Now, now, Doctor...such language." The man purred.

A white hot surge of anger swept through Sherlock as he struggled uselessly against the drug that held him captive. He was certain that he was going to die; however, he just as certain that Moriarty would not be satisfied with simply killing him. No…their rivalry ran too deep and had lasted too long. He knew the sociopath would not be content with anything less that his complete and utter destruction.

Body and soul…

The 'chance' offered was no more than a trap. John's fatal flaw was his loyalty…a characteristic which had put him in danger time and time again. John had a life and a future, and yet Sherlock knew his friend would risk it all in an attempt to save him. His friend would accept Moriarty's dark challenge, a challenge he could not win…and Sherlock was helpless to prevent it.

His thoughts were interrupted as Moriarty appeared beside him, the cold grin on the man's thin face confirming his fears.

"The good doctor has accepted my little challenge." His nemesis stated pleasantly as his long thin fingers leisurely traced the length of tubing to the contraption on the table. Moriarty paused at the small valve set into the top of the glass, and then with a theatrical flourish, he turned it. A large drop of crimson liquid hung for a brief moment before it fell to splatter against the bottom of the glass. It was followed by another…

and another…

Moriarty smiled mockingly.

"The game is afoot."

oOo

The windshield wipers beat a soft rhythm against the ever present rain, a soothing accompaniment to the steady drone of the low conversation between the two men seated in the front of the sedan. Inspectors Bradstreet and Hopkins, John recalled absently as he watched the world beyond the blurred glass with unseeing eyes. He had met both men a few times on various cases the Yard had consulted Sherlock on. Both struck him as good and honest men, like their boss. They had shown up on Mary's doorstep less than fifteen minutes after he had placed a call to Lestrade, informing him of Sherlock's abduction and the messages he had received.

Lestrade had insisted that John allow him to place both Mary and him under police protection. With Moriarty's involvement in the matter, they could not afford to take any chances. The sociopath had not shown himself to be a man of his word in the past; there was little reason to trust him to play even by his own rules. For the time being no one was assumed safe, least of all one Dr. John Watson. John had agreed for Mary's sake, though he lamented the loss of time. Time was something that they had too little of…as the message had made abundantly clear. He had wasted no time in forwarding the video message on to both Scotland Yard and Sherlock's brother. Lestrade had promised to have the Yard's tech team begin tracing the source at once, though there had been no response as of yet from Mycroft.

With no other place to begin, John had suggested Lestrade begin his search at the Baker Street flat as his friend had been seen last headed in its direction. A part of him wondered if his friend had even made it that far. His chest tightened as he recalled the video message…an image which was now burned into his mind. A heavy sigh slipped from his lips before he realized that he had been the one to utter it, as a feeling of guild welled up within him. He should have accompanied Sherlock back to Baker Street. He should not have left him alone.

A small hand slipped into his, drawing him from his thoughts. John brushed a kiss against Mary's soft blonde curls as she dropped her head against his shoulder. The guilt intensified as he gently freed his hand from her grasp and enfolded her in his arms.

"Sherlock will be alright." She murmured softly. "You'll find him, John."

He said nothing, not trusting his voice, as he hugged her closer for a moment. He wished that he was as certain. It was a dangerous game which had begun. She should not be involved, and yet she was. As long as she was with him, she was a potential target as well. John had explained the dangers as best he could early on in their courtship…and yet she had remained with him, determined to be with him…for better or for worse. Sherlock was not the only one at risk if they failed…John had little doubt that Moriarty would end his 'game' even if his adversary perished.

"We're coming up on Baker Street, Dr. Watson." Hopkins announced quietly, as the car made a slow turn and the darkness was broken by alternating flashes of blue and white.

Lestrade himself emerged from the open doorway of 221 as the vehicle eased to a stop, opening a large umbrella against the ever present rain as he quickly crossed the distance to the curb. He held it over the rear door as Hopkins pulled it open. John emerged first, followed shortly by Mary. He wrapped an arm securely around her, placing her between himself and Lestrade as they made their way toward the building. John could not help but note the strong feeling of déjà vu which crept over him as they ducked beneath the police line which held back a small crowd of curious onlookers. This was not the first incident which had occurred at 221 since their arrival, nor was it likely to be the last…at least he hoped not.

His arm tightened around Mary, drawing her closer to him as his eyes swept the scene for hidden dangers, lurking in the dark shadows beyond the reach of the blue and white strobes. A pair of jack-o-lanterns grinned eerily at them from the neighbor's stoop. John's mouth tightened into a hard line as his eyes shifted from the glowing smiles. His grandmother had believed that the presence of the grinning vegetable could shield the inhabitants of a dwelling from harm intended upon them by evil spirits. As a child, he had believed it to be true…before he had learned firsthand that there were greater evils in this world than goblins and ghouls. He had witnessed more horror in his lifetime than he cared to remember, both in the hot desert sands and among the dark, wet streets of London…horrors caused by evil in the form of flesh and blood.

John shoved the thoughts back into the dark recesses of his mind as they entered 221. He felt a small sense of relief as his eyes lighted on the empty space by the door which usually held Mrs. Hudson's boots and umbrella, grateful that she was safely in Bristol. As proprietor of the house, she had of course been notified of the suspected break-in; however she had not been informed of the full extent of the events which were unfolding…namely Sherlock's abduction. John was grateful that for once she had accepted his reassurances that he would handle everything in her stead. Dear lady. If she knew the truth, there was nothing that would prevent her from returning. The further she was from London, the safer she would be.

"The bomb squad swept the building from attic to cellar. It's clean." Lestrade stated as they paused at the foot of the stairs to allow a pair of constables to pass.

The inspector's dark eyes softened as they paused briefly on his friend. "Welcome back, by the way."

John nodded with a slight smile. "Thanks. It's good to be back."

He watched his friend with a doctor's practiced eye as Lestrade offered Mary a weary smile and a nod, which she returned with a warm one of her own. The man looked as bone weary as John felt, but his eyes burned with an intense fire which John had come to associate with instances where threats had been made against those the inspector sought to protect. John had once heard Sherlock describe Lestrade as a bulldog…loyal, stubborn and unshakable…loyal friend and a formidable adversary. John felt a small margin of tension release at the affirmation that he was not alone in this fight. If he fell, there were others who would take his place…and protect those he loved.

"I've pulled in everyone I could get a hold of to assist in the search. Not an easy task as the majority of the Yard has been temporarily reassigned to assist with security for the American Ambassador's masquerade ball, which is being held in honor of the PM."

His eyes met and held John's briefly, the message was clear. The timing of Sherlock's abduction had not been random but in fact had been perfectly planned to coincide with a time when assistance would be limited and response delayed. It also potentially explained Mycroft's unusual lapse in response.

"The rest of us have had our hands full with reports of small fires and assorted acts of mischief which have been popping up all over the city." Lestrade continued as led the way up the stairs. "I really hate this time of year."

The small smile, which had found its way to John's face at his friend's muttered comment, faded as they stepped through the doorway and into the flat he shared with Sherlock. The investigative team was still hard at work taking photos and dusting various pieces of furniture around the room with fingerprint powder. Sergeant Donavan glanced up from her notebook from her place beside Sherlock's cluttered desk; a laptop sat open beside her, its screen facing away from the doorway. Her eyes softened as she nodded briefly before calling her boss over.

Lestrade nodded in response, his hand staying John from following. "Wait here for a moment."

John nodded and began to sweep the room with his eyes, feeling the need to do something. Little had changed in the time that they had been away…as far as he could tell at least. The furniture seemed to be in the same place, as did the teetering stacks of books and papers his flatmate had left littered around the room. A tight smile creased his lips briefly as his eyes swept the mantle of the fireplace. Sherlock's skull was missing, probably Mrs. Hudson's doing as there was also distinct absence of dirty dishes in the kitchen and dust on the furniture in the sitting room. Despite her claims that she was not their housekeeper, she still seemed to take it upon herself to look after them…though the dear woman had not gone near the refrigerator since the incident with the head. Not that John blamed her.

"It looks like they are done with the kitchen. I don't know about you two, but I could do with a cup of tea." Mary said with a small smile as Lestrade returned.

John returned her smile. "Make sure you only use the tins in my cupboard…and only the sealed ones at that." He warned as he released her, watching as she made her way into the kitchen before turning his attention back to the inspector.

"Any luck in tracing the video link?" John asked softly as he glanced over at the computer on the desk.

Lestrade shook his head slowly. "Nothing yet. It is fairly sophisticated. The lab boys are tracking it but the signal has been bounced off a number of receivers. It is going to take time." He hesitated a brief moment before voicing the question in his dark eyes. "How much time do we really have?"

John let out a slow breath through his nose as he considered the question that had plagued him since the moment he had received the second video link…which had included a time clock. "I think we should assume that we have less than we were given." He glanced at the face of the watch which adorned his left wrist. It was nearing nine o'clock. "He's lost nearly a pint of blood already. After two he will begin to show signs of hypovolemia. As the blood continues to drain, the stress will increase on his heart as it struggles to cope with the decrease in blood volume. If not stopped, in four hours his heart and his major organs will begin to shut down. After five…" His voice trailed off for a moment. John cleared his throat and continued quietly he raised his eyes to meet his friend's. "I would say we have three hours…at the most."

Lestrade nodded tightly. "Right then, let's get you up to speed, shall we?" He gestured a hand toward the doorway to the room. "Sherlock made it at least as far as the flat. His overnight bag and laptop case were found beside the sofa. It is likely that he may have even been taken from here though we are still in the process of attempting to determine how exactly. No one other than Sherlock was seen either entering or leaving the building since early this morning, though the patrol on duty was distracted a short time around noon by a report of a tripped alarm a few streets away."

He pointed toward the windows. "One of your neighbors, a Mr. Johnstone, reported seeing two men carry a large rolled rug out of the building next door roughly an hour after the patrol reported seeing Sherlock return, which they placed into a large white paneled lorry. The building has been under renovations so he thought little of it at the time. He was able to give us a description of the van as well as its license number, which we confirmed from images retrieved from the traffic camera on the corner. I issued a notice regarding the van, but by now it could be anywhere."

A small frown crossed John's face as his blue eyes brushed over the room. "Have you heard anything from Mycroft or his men?"

Lestrade shook his head slightly. "Nothing. Though we did find two cameras, complete with listening devices in the sitting room, as well as one in the downstairs hall and one in the rear of the building. They appear to be working but we were unable to find anything in the feeds." His dark eyes met John's. "Not a thing…including Sherlock's arrival."

John's eyes narrowed. "Tampered with?"

Lestrade nodded. "This was well thought out...and in advance." He knelt for a moment beside the low table and retrieved something off of the floor. "There is something else you should see." The inspector said quietly as he held out his hand.

John took the small particle carefully, examining it closely. "Drywall dust?" he asked. "From where? Mrs. Hudson isn't planning any renovations that I know of and it has been nearly two months since Sherlock last damaged any walls."

Lestrade beckoned John to follow him as he moved through the door and into the hallway. He led the way up, past John's own room on the second floor to the unused and closed off portion of the third. The door to the room John had not seen in many years stood open. Bright flashes and the low murmur of voices came from beyond as the men made their way to the landing and stepped inside. John paused in his tracks as his eyes lighted upon a neatly cut square in the wall which separated it from the flat next door…the flat under renovation.

"The men with the rug?" he asked tightly as he moved closer to the hole.

Lestrade nodded as he joined his friend. "We believe so."

John leaned forward, poking his head through the hole. It would have taken a great deal of time and skill to cut through not only two layers of dry wall, but a double layer of fire proof wall as well. The room beyond was dark and silent. He could make out stacks of boxes and a few pieces of what looked to be furniture, draped with heavy dust clothes.

"The owners of the house are in Canada on holiday and have been for a month or so. We are still attempting to track them down."

John closed his eyes briefly as he attempted to put an order to his muddled thoughts. Why go through the trouble of cutting a hole in the wall? At least it cleared up the question of how he had vanished from the building. Though it gave little evidence as to where he had been taken after…

He slid a hand into the pocket of his jacket as his phone vibrated signifying a new message. His eyes narrowed in tightly controlled anger as he read the words.

_One pint down and four to go. Tick, tock, Doctor…or should I say drip, drop_

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Mary Morestan is from The Sign of the Four. Thank you for reading! <em>


	3. Chapter 3

_9:00 pm October 31__st_

_One pint down…four to go. _

The image which followed Moriarty's taunting message made John's stomach churn.

The angle of the photo was different than that of the live video feed, which had been attached to his blog site under the posting 'The Dying Detective'. This one was also a bit more…artistic. The grotesque hourglass loomed in the foreground as if it were some bizarre prop from an old Alfred Hitchcock movie… though there was no mistaking the opaque crimson liquid it held for any substance other than blood. Nor did it leave any question as to the source. The glass was set in the center of the image framed on either side by the unnaturally still form of the man lying on the table behind it. To the left of the glass, a thin dark tube was visible, leading from the top of the glass to the IV port in the pale arm…and to the right, the detective's deathly pale face…a face which more resembled that of a wax figure or a marble statue than that his normally energetic friend.

A cold fury burned inside John as he studied the image. He let out a slow measured breath through his nose as he forced back behind a shield of professional detachment. The messages were just another calculated piece of Moriarty's demented little game, a piece intended to distract him. The tick marks visible against the polished surface of the glass provided an unneeded reminder that time was running out. He needed to keep his mind clear; anger would only cloud his judgment. A small humourless smile played at the edges of his mouth as he caught the soft oath uttered by Lestrade.

"Indeed." John remarked softly. The smile faded into a thin hard line as he shifted to allow Lestrade a better view of the small screen. "See anything new?" he asked, as he scanned the image again for clues to Sherlock's location.

The tubing and IV port were standard medical equipment which, these days, could be purchased anywhere from a medical supply store to an on-line site; the same went for the hourglass. The use of a single focused light prevented a view of the room beyond the table on which Sherlock was laying and the one which held the hourglass. The tables appeared to be metal and the floor beneath them concrete, but again hardly extraordinary. Together they suggested as little as they did individually…at least to him. Sherlock could be anywhere…a warehouse…a cellar…a theater set...with Moriarty the possibilities were endless. John couldn't help but feel that his flatmate would have solved the case by now with the help of some miniscule clue such as the wattage of the light in the room, the pen used to make the marks on the glass or the type of video camera used as identified by the pixel count and quality. He however was just a doctor; all he was certain of was that his friend had been drugged, most likely a powerful paralytic agent as he was not bound but had seemed alert in the video footage…and that he would die if not found in the next few hours.

"Nothing." Lestrade shook his head slightly, frustration in his dark eyes. "I'll send it on to the lab boys at any rate. Perhaps they will be able to find something."

John nodded as he forwarded both messages to the inspector's mobile. He slipped the phone back into his pocket as his gaze returned to the gaping hole in the wall before him; his head was beginning to throb. In order to play a game, some clues must be revealed. While he was under no illusion that Moriarty would intentionally let him find Sherlock, at least alive, the past 'games' which the man had orchestrated suggested that he would have left some clues behind for his opponent to follow. No matter how small and/or obscure. So the question then was what would Sherlock look for?

_You know my methods. Apply them._

Sherlock's voice was as loud and real in his mind as if the man himself were standing at his shoulder. John rubbed a rough hand through his hair. He could almost picture his flatmate, arms crossed over his chest with smug look on his face.

"Yes, yes, alright," John muttered under his breath as he took a step back toward the damaged wall. His hand patted his coat pocket absently, and a small smirk of triumph graced his face as he withdrew a torch. He switched it on as he leaned into the room, playing the thin beam over the floor on the opposite side of the hole. The flooring consisted of hardwood planks which looked as if they were old and worn enough to have been there since the original construction of the building. The dark wood was lightly coated with a dusting of fine white powder, probably dry wall dust from the hole cut into the wall. He fingered a small piece from the rough edge of the hole; as far as he could tell it matched the particles Lestrade had found in the sitting room.

John held the light steady as the beam caught the edge of a pair of shoe prints outlined in the dust, a workman's boot by the looks of it. The prints were large which suggested that their owner was probably a rather tall man. _Or a perhaps a short man with large feet._ John shook his head in disagreement with Sherlock's 'voice'. The distance between the sets of prints suggested a long stride which better supported his theory that the man was tall. _Not bad. What else? _Blue eyes narrowed in response to the challenge. A wider sweep of the light revealed a second slightly smaller set of footprints nearly parallel to the first. The edges of the smaller prints were slightly smudged as if the man had either a physical impairment, such as a lame foot, or had been carrying something heavy. As the markings were nearly the same for both feet, the doctor concluded that the latter was more likely the case. Perhaps a tool chest as suggested by a large rectangular patch near the base of the wall where the footprints ended.

Sections of the wall sat neatly stacked at the side of the hole, the order of the tiles confirming John's previous deduction that the job had been done methodically and over a period of time. The sections closest to the wall matched the wall paper of the room, followed by the firewalling and finally the sections matching that of the room in which he currently stood, similar to cutting the layers of a tiered cake. The hole was large enough in width and height to allow a full grown man to squeeze through without too much effort. The activity of the team on his side of the hole suggested that they had found some evidence that this had been the case. The retreating footprints were a bit odd, with the large pair following the smaller at a nearly even interval. Both sets of prints were smudged as if the men had been carrying something heavy and rather awkward…such as a certain unconscious detective.

"What do you see?" Lestrade asked from beyond his shoulder.

John quickly summarized the facts as he straightened, taking care not to touch the crumbling edges of the hole as he did so.

Lestrade nodded his agreement. "A bit more detailed than my team has deduced but roughly the same. Your descriptions match those of your neighbor's of the two men with the rug." A slight grin creased his weary features. "Not bad at all. Sherlock might even be a bit proud." The grin widened at the doctor's amused snort. "The foreman in charge of the renovation has arrived and so has the search warrant. Care to join us?"

John gestured toward the doorway as he returned the torch to his pocket. "Lead on."

Lestrade led the way back through the chaos of the room and down the narrow stairs toward the ground floor. John followed, pausing briefly to check on Mary. She shooed him on his way with an understanding smile as he apologized for abandoning her a second time. Hopkins had joined her, as had Donovan. Though they appeared to be taking the advantage of a small break, he had a feeling that the two detectives were discretely watching out for her. Despite the fact that the building was crawling with Yarders, the fact of the matter remained that someone they considered one of their own – though most would never admit it – had been taken from under their noses and they were not about to allow it to happen a second time. John gave both of the detectives a grateful nod as he made his way out of the flat and down the stairs to the ground floor where Lestrade and Bradstreet waited with a somewhat stout and slightly balding middle-aged gentleman.

Lestrade identified the man as a Mr. Thomas Radford, foreman for New London Renovations. The man had seemed to be honestly surprised, as well as angered, when informed of the damage to the wall between the upper floors of the building. He seemed to have deduced that something of value had been stolen and Lestrade let him believe what he would, keeping Sherlock out of the discussion for the moment. He provided Mr. Radford with a copy of the photo taken by the traffic camera of the two men with the lorry and was rewarded as the man's faced instantly darkened.

"The driver's name is Joshua Tipton. The other bloke is Theodore Walsh." Radford remarked with a frown. "They work for Tipton Rugs and Furnishings in Westminster, the company hired to do the installation of the carpets as soon as my boys finish with the interior work. Been around on and off for at least a week or so. Kept mostly to themselves, working after my boys had knocked off for the day." He returned the photo to Lestrade. "Had a feeling that something wasn't quite right with them, but I didn't have much of a say in the matter as they were hired directly by the owners. Prefer to work with a different shop myself."

"What made you suspect the men, Mr. Radford?" Lestrade asked as he passed a note to Bradstreet. The big man nodded in response before vanishing through the front door.

Radford shrugged lightly. "Seemed a bit dodgy, that's all. Earlier today they came in with a couple large area rugs and a tool chest. Remembered wondering what they would need tools to roll out a rug." He ran a hand over his thinning hair before placing an old tweed cap firmly on his head. "The owners said to show you boys around and help out in any way that I could."

Lestrade offered the man a sincere smile. "Thank you, Mr. Radford. Lead the way, if you would."

The smaller man nodded; he tugged up the collar of his well worn overcoat as he led the way back out into the cold night. Bradstreet joined them, flanking John's right as Lestrade took up his left as they made their way toward the building next door. Radford pulled a large ring of keys from his pocket, sorting through them with a practiced hand as they made their way up the short walk. John reviewed what little he knew of the owners of the building as they waited as the foreman fitted the key into the lock. During his three years of residence at the Baker Street flat, John had never once met nor seen their neighbors. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned them once in passing. They were an older couple, she had said. The husband had made a small fortune in the textile industry before retiring several years earlier. They were rarely home as they preferred to travel.

John returned his attention to the matter at hand as he felt Lestrade's light hand on his shoulder, herding him toward the now open doorway and away from the street. Radford pressed a switch just inside the doorway and a soft light flooded the hall and entryway. The layout was similar to 221 with the exception of open archways in the place of the doors which divided his building into separate flats. The air was cool and slightly stuffy with the lingering scent of fresh paint mixed with some sort of industrial cleaner, most likely paint thinner given the stacks of paint cans and brushes which lined the hall. John moved further into what appeared to be a sitting room as a pair of uniformed constables followed Bradstreet inside; the men dispersed as Lestrade gave the order to search the premises. The officers made quick work of the ground floor and continued upward, the sound of their hard soled boots echoed from the floors above. John looked down as the floor beneath his shoes made a strange crinkling sound and found the hardwood had been covered with a layer of heavy plastic sheeting to protect it from the paint. His nose wrinkled in amused distaste as he examined the color of the room. In his humble opinion someone should have protected the walls as well from the hideous shade of what he supposed was something similar to a color his sister had once referred to as salmon pink.

He moved back into the room as Bradstreet called out an all clear from an upper floor; Lestrade motioned for Radford to lead the way up the stairs. Everything was quiet and still, apart from their small group. The rooms were mostly vacant of furnishings and appeared to be in the final stages of renovation. John was amused to find the color choices were just as odd if not stranger than the shade used in the sitting room. Sage green, burnt orange, buttercup yellow, blush pink, forget-me-not blue…all colors he remembered from his sister's brief excursion into the world of interior design. The door to a bedroom on the second floor stood open, revealing a stack of rolled carpets against the far wall. When questioned, Radford confirmed that the room had been used by Tipton and Walsh to store their supplies.

Lestrade sent the constables back down to the ground floor to await the arrival of the forensics team as they reached the third floor landing. Radford paused, his mouth slightly open in disbelief as he first laid eyes upon the damage to the wall. A litany of curse words flowed from the stout foreman as he rushed into the room before Lestrade could prevent him. The inspector quickly followed the man, shouting through the hole at Anderson to bring a team over quickly before the evidence was damaged further. John hid a smirk as the man in question snapped to attention, nearly saluting his boss before catching himself with a scowl. Bradstreet was a little less discreet, bellowing a laugh as the cranky forensics lead spun on his heel and vanished through the opposite door. The laughter faded quickly as Lestrade shot his subordinate a sharp look before returning his attention back to the fuming foreman.

The yellowish light cast by the lone bulb on the ceiling made the room look even more cluttered if possible. Taking care not to damage any evidence further, John eased into a thin gap between a pair of large sofas which ran perpendicular to the damaged wall. His eyes swept the room slowly as he assessed the scene from a different angle; unfortunately it yielded no further information than what he had been able to gather from the opposite side of the wall. A loud commotion sounded from the stairs, followed shortly by Anderson and his team. The man shot John a withering look which the doctor ignored as he carefully made his way back in the direction he had come. John left the room as the forensics lead began to shout orders at the teams on both sides of the wall. He shook his head as he moved across the small landing where Lestrade stood waiting with a red faced, however much calmer, Radford.

The inspector caught John's eye with a questioning look, to which John shook his head in response as his sense of frustration grew stronger. He glanced at his watch and surprised to see the time was quickly nearing a half past nine. One hour and thirty minutes had passed…and they were still no nearer to figuring out Sherlock's location. John turned as Bradstreet shouted up from the floor below. They found in the room to the left of the stairs, crouched by a pair of rolled rugs; a familiar object lay in a small heap at his feet.

Sherlock's scarf.

"Holmes was here." Bradstreet remarked solemnly as he carefully shifted the blue-grey fabric with a gloved hand, revealing a large dark stain near its center roughly in the spot where it would have rested against the back of its owner's neck. "Blood…location suggests that he may have been clubbed." He returned the scarf carefully to its original position and stood, stepping back as Lestrade called up the stairs for Anderson.

John moved further into the room, his eyes scanning for further clues as he did, but he could see none. Apart from Sherlock's discarded scarf and the rugs, the room was empty. "I never should have let him go alone," he remarked quietly, more to himself than to the others who stood watching. "I knew something wasn't right..." He swallowed heavily against the tightening lump in his throat.

"If you had, he probably would have taken you both." _And killed you without a further thought._

John heard the unspoken words as clearly as if Lestrade had uttered them aloud.

"We'll find him, John."

Radford's look of curiosity stayed John from making any further comment. He nodded briefly, moving aside as Anderson appeared with a photographer in tow. Lestrade's retrieved his mobile from his jacket pocket as it buzzed softly.

"Lestrade," He answered. "Where?" John looked up at the sharp question. Determination shone from the inspector's dark eyes. "We are on our way." He stated, a thin smile on his face, as he ended the call and returned the mobile to his pocket.

"We found the lorry."

oOo

When he was a small child, Sherlock had once heard a priest describe Hell as a place of intense heat and fire where sinners burned for all eternity. He knew now that the man had been mistaken. Hell was damp and cold. Hell was being held prisoner by one's own helpless body…accompanied only by one's dark thoughts…and the ever constant dripping sound as life slowly drained from one's veins. His eyes flickered toward the glass. The blood had reached a level just below the two pint mark...two hours passed…three more until it ended. A labored sigh echoed through the damp space as his eyes slipped close.

The combined effects of the paralytic agent and the loss of blood were slowly growing stronger. His mind felt heavy and sluggish, a fact which Sherlock found both disconcerting and extremely annoying. A thought flittered briefly through his mind as to whether this was how normal people felt all of the time; if so it was no wonder that Anderson was continually sour. It must be truly frustrating to have such a dull mind. A thin smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. If by some small miracle he did manage to survive this ordeal, he must remember to inquire how Anderson managed it.

If he survived…

Moriarty had vanished nearly an hour earlier without comment, other than a cold smile and a mocking request that Sherlock not to 'run off' while he was away. The sociopath seemed rather pleased with himself…a fact which did not bode well for either John or anyone else who had joined in the twisted game, knowingly or not. Sherlock drew a slow breath, forcing his lungs as far as he could before releasing it. He repeated the exercise several times, elated as he felt his mind begin to clear as the added oxygen moved within his sluggish system. His eyes opened, focusing this time on the camera mounted on the ceiling just beyond the edge of the source of the blinding light above him. The small light glowed a steady red, signaling that it was recording. He wondered if his nemesis was watching him…or if the camera was purely for John's benefit; Sherlock wished, not for the first time, for some way to warn his friend.

His fingers twitched ever so slightly as he tested his limitations for what seemed like the hundredth time. The drug appeared to be wearing off slowly…very slowly. A small frown creased his thin lips as his mind calculated the chances of even a partial recovery before his time ran out; the frown deepened as he concluded logically that they were at best slim to none. A small choked laugh broke the near silence as his memory recalled what would have been John's most likely response to such a pronouncement. _Slim is better than nothing…at least with slim there is still a chance…_But what chance did he have? What chance did any of them truly have?

He had struggled for so long to shield those he cared for from his nemesis' ever growing reach. The sleepless nights spent on his computer, hacking networks and tracing leads...the endless frustration in dealing with Mycroft's overprotective nattering and constant demands that he agree to allow himself to be placed under protection…the ever present guilt that gnawed at his conscience each time his actions placed John in further danger. What if his brother had been correct in his deduction that the others would be safe and ignored if he had agreed to disappear…but then again perhaps it would not have made any difference and they would have been in as much danger as they were now. Moriarty did not forget those who crossed him, and it was not in his nature to forgive.

A soft grinding noise, like that of metal against stone, whispered through the room, interrupting his thoughts. Sherlock closed his eyes, feigning sleep as the sound of approaching footsteps followed. He forced himself to remain still as the footsteps neared the table on which he lay, pausing beside him. An icy chill crept up his spine at the soft chiding voice.

"Sherlock, you should know by now that you cannot fool me."

He remained still, listening as the footsteps moved away, circling the far end of the table as Moriarty made his way toward the morbid contraption beside him. A heavy silence hung in the air for a long moment…and then it was broken by a low dark chuckle.

"Is it completely horrid that I find the sound of your blood dripping away strangely therapeutic? It is a shame that it cannot last for much longer." Sherlock could hear the smile in Moriarty's voice. "Never the mind…I just came to deliver a small bit of news. It appears that your pet is a bit more intelligent than I first believed." The man's voice dropped to a whisper as it hovered at a point just above Sherlock's left ear. "Good for you perhaps…but I'm afraid that it is not so good for the doctor."

Anger surged sluggishly through Sherlock at the threat; his fingers itched at a chance to wrap around the man's throat. He should have shot Moriarty when he'd had the chance. One bullet…that is all it would have taken, however at the time he had been held captive by the sight of the mass of laser points on John's chest. He should have known it was a trick.

"Struck a nerve, have I? He really is quite loyal, isn't he? A rare quality...and a rare man." Moriarty murmured. "If you are very good, perhaps I will give you the opportunity to say goodbye." A sick feeling settled into the pit of Sherlock's stomach as he closed his mind to the mocking laughter which followed.

Hell was knowing that those you cared for were in danger…and that there was not a damn thing you could do about it.

_Author's note: Hitchcock was noted for using oversized props to enhance the 'doom' or the perception of the audience members – as in the movie Notorious, where he used a three foot tall tea cup in the scene in which Ingrid Berman discovers that she is being poisoned. Also he is noted for the use of chocolate syrup to depict blood for the shower scene in the movie Psycho. Thank you for your patience and for reading – hope you are still enjoying the story. More to come._


	4. Chapter 4

_10:00 pm_

_Two pints down…three to go_

The good news was that the wind had ceased. The bad news was that a fog had begun to set in and a heavy, damp fog at that; a fact which made searching for a white lorry in a shadowy maze of narrow streets and blind alleyways somewhat…challenging.

The vehicle had been sighted by a patrol in the general vicinity of an industrial area near the river. It was reported in response to the alert which had been ordered by Lestrade, however white lorries were not exactly a novelty and many sightings had been reported. By the time the information had been verified and passed on to the inspector, two hours had passed. Still it was the best, and only, lead they'd had since the affair had begun. The area in which the lorry had been seen consisted of several blocks of dilapidated old warehouses and weed snarled empty lots; the search would have been difficult enough to conduct during the day let alone a dark and damp foggy night. There were too many places to hide…far too many to search during their limited timeframe, a limitation which Moriarty delighted in reminding John of every hour on the hour with a tally and a new photo.

John needed no reminder; he was well aware of the fact that with each passing moment the chances of Sherlock's survival grew more uncertain. If they were unable to find him within the next two hours, he feared that, even if he managed to save his friend's life, the damage done might be irreversible. This fear had plagued him from the moment Moriarty had revealed his dark little 'game'. As a doctor he had witnessed firsthand the effects of massive blood loss on the body…and the mind. He vowed to do everything within his power to prevent it from happening to his friend.

He forwarded the last set of messages on to Lestrade and Mycroft, adding a rather scathing message of his own for the latter. It was both odd and extremely frustrating that the man who seemed to delight in abducting him off the streets at the most inconvenient of times just to inquire after his brother's eating habits, who managed to sneak at least three security cameras into the flat without his knowledge, who practically _ran_ the British government had remained strangely absent while a madman had not only abducted his brother from his own home but was making good on his threat to dispose of the detective…in a most ingenious and inhuman manner. John swore that if anything…anything at all… happened to Sherlock he would take Mycroft's bloody umbrella and shove it up his…well some place very unpleasant to be certain.

"Doctor Watson."

John slid the mobile into the pocket of his trousers and accepted the Kevlar vest Bradstreet offered with a nod of thanks. Though they had been unable to locate the lorry itself, a search of the property holdings had revealed that Tipton Rugs and Furnishings held the deed to a large warehouse located in the general direction in which the vehicle had vanished. It was a start though not quite enough to gain the search warrant they required…until the tech boys had managed to trace the origin of the video feed to an area with radius of twelve blocks which included the warehouse in question. Lestrade had prepositioned his teams a few blocks away from the building as those with higher authority used their influence to gain the required warrant. Until then, all they could do was wait.

…with time they did not have.

What they needed was a miracle.

John secured the vest over his jumper, ignoring the damp cold of the rain as it traced down the back of his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. His shoulder twinged in protest as he slid his arms back into his coat. He rotated it carefully, loosening the scarred muscle as he ignored the concerned looks of his self appointed bodyguards as they hovered in the background. His hand dropped to rest on the hilt of his service revolver tucked against his lower back beneath his coat. The familiar presence of the gun calmed him, as did the soft steady murmur of the voices and movement which surrounded him as the team Lestrade had assembled readied to move, awaiting the signal. He turned his head as the murmur of voices grew more urgent and then quieted suddenly. Lestrade stood in the center of the men, the thick tendrils of damp white fog nearly obscuring the group though they were a mere few meters away. The inspector gave a quick gesture and the men melted into the darkness like wraiths. John straightened as his friend hurried toward them, a determined glint in his dark eyes.

"We have the warrant." Lestrade announced as he reached them. "The teams are moving into position. You three are with me. With Moriarty involved, there is no knowing what situation we might find, so the explosives team will move first and the rest of us will follow. The mission is to get in, secure the site, find Holmes and get out. Clear?"

All three men nodded solemnly. Lestrade reached out and caught John's arm, holding him back as Bradstreet and Hopkins moved forward. His dark eyes were serious as he studied his friend.

"I know that you are armed." He stated softly. "Stay close, keep your head down, and try to remember that you are a civilian and let us do our jobs for once."

John nodded tightly. He knew the risk that Lestrade was taking allowing him to join in the raid…however, whether the result of Sherlock's influence or not, he was not about to let them bully him into remaining behind. Besides, if Sherlock was in the warehouse, they would need his medical expertise.

"Right." Lestrade stated, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Good, then. Sherlock would never let me hear the end of it if I allowed something to happen to you on my watch."

The grin widened briefly at John's soft snort of protest at the statement, and then the moment of levity faded as the radio on Lestrade's shoulder crackled quietly and the seriousness of the situation returned.

"Let's move out."

The men moved forward silently, spreading out along the maze of alleyways and streets which wove between the old warehouses along the waterfront; Lestrade's team was to approach the building from the front while the second team approached the rear. The air was thick with the scent of brackish brine of the nearby mudflats mingled with rotting fish from the docks beyond the buildings. John carefully stepped around a dank puddle of muddy water, pressing his back against the rough cut brick of the building beside his as Lestrade signaled them to halt near the mouth of the alley. He tightened his grip on his weapon as his eyes settled on their target. The Tipton Warehouse was a large three story structure which had been built more for utilitarian use than aesthetics. It was constructed primarily of brick with a large loading bay set into the right side; the large metal bay doors appeared to be secured, despite the aging patches of rust which peppered their surface. Large windows were set at even intervals along the top half of the building, several of the panes broken and cracked. The building appeared abandoned…with the exception of a small light which glimmered from the far left bank of windows. No movement was visible.

Lestrade issued the signal and the Yarders moved quietly forward. Each doorway was swiftly and carefully examined for possible trip wires or traps. With Moriarty's love for explosives, one could not be too cautious. None were found. A side door was swiftly opened and the team moved inside the structure. The interior appeared to consist of one cavernous main room with a metal staircase leading to a second story loft on the left side of the room. The main floor contained what appeared to be carefully balanced rolls of plastic covered carpets, many of which had been there for quite some time judging by the thick layer of dust. The air was stale and tinged with a noxious combination of old plastics, mildew and old carpets. As they moved silently along the side of the building toward the rear, John caught a faint scent of petrol. He caught Lestrade's eye as he motioned toward a large white object located near the loading bay doors.

The missing lorry.

The vehicle was empty, though they had not expected to find anyone inside. The engine was cold and the doors were unlocked. A closer look with a carefully hooded torch revealed little in the front of the vehicle other than a mound of take away food wrappers and an older GPS unit attached to the dashboard. A quick examination of the rear of the vehicle revealed a bit more. A pile of rolled area rugs were stacked carefully along the floor. One was half covered by a long black bit of fabric which on closer examination was revealed to be Sherlock's coat. Beside the coat rested an old battered metal tool chest. The men exchanged quick glances as they eased away from the vehicle and continued their search of the building. The presence of Sherlock's coat suggested that the man himself might be close. For the first time that night, a small bit of hope began to thaw the grip which clenched at John's chest.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the silhouettes of the second team as they moved swiftly up a metal staircase which led to a loft in the back corner of the room where the light had originated. The rest moved toward the rear a second light source was barely visible among the piles of rugs. The back left hand corner of the building appeared to have been walled off, forming a small box like structure the size of the sitting room at Baker Street. Unlike the rest of the building, it had been constructed fairly recently judging by the scent of drywall and fresh paint. If Sherlock were in the building, this was as likely a place as any. A light spill from beneath the lone door; no sound was heard from beyond it. The silence was eerie…almost foreboding.

Tension was thick as the team moved silently into place on either side of the door. Lestrade motioned for John and Hopkins to fall back as the rest readied to move. The door was examined for trip wires, and upon finding none, a pair of armored constables moved forward with a compact battering ram. Metal struck wood, splintering the door frame with a piercing crack as the men spilled into the small room, declaring their identity and issuing a demand of surrender…and then the shouts ceased abruptly followed by a loud oath.

"Doctor Watson!"

John surged forward through the doorway and into the room with Hopkins on his heels. The man nearly crashed into him as he came to a sudden halt at the gruesome sight which greeted him. Disappointment warred with horror and disgust before John felt his mask of professional detachment snap firmly into place. It was one thing to witness such a scene through a photo or video link…and another to see it in person. He moved closer to the low table and the body which lay sprawled on its surface. His fingers reached forward to press against the pale clammy throat though he had already known what he would find. No one could lose so much blood and survive.

His eyes met Lestrade's as he shook his head slightly.

"He's dead."

John reached forward and gently closed the dark lifeless eyes. "At least two hours from the looks of it." He took a step back as his eyes shifted to the container on the table beside the man, and the crimson colored liquid which spilled over its rim, pooling onto the floor. Anger burned inside him at the inhumanity of the act. No man deserved to die in such a manner, no matter what he had done. "Never had a chance."

"Joshua Tipton." Lestrade identified.

John nodded. "Out lived his usefulness…literally."

He ran a rough hand over his face and then through his hair as the heavy disappointment returned. There was no sign of Sherlock and their best suspect was dead.

"Spread out and search the building for his companion." Lestrade ordered. "And keep an eye out for any hidden rooms or locked doors. The signal came from this building, so Holmes might still be here."

Before anyone could move, the sound of slow clapping filled the room.

"Oh I don't believe that will be necessary, Inspector." A cold familiar voice remarked pleasantly. "Allow me to save you the trouble."

A large LED screen blinked to life against the back wall. John let out a low growl as he raised his weapon, though it was useless against the mocking smile of the man on the opposite side of the screen.

"Now, Doctor, temper, temper." Moriarty crooned.

John lowered the gun slowly as pulled his emotions under control. It would do him little good to lose his control now, not while Sherlock was still in danger and Moriarty was still breathing…why waste bullets on a television screen when he could save them for the real thing.

"Where is Sherlock?" He bit out between clenched teeth.

The smile plastered on the man's pale face grew patronizing as he took a step back from the screen to reveal the detective lying on the table behind him. "Oh he's safe…for now."

John swept the prone detective's image with practiced glance, measuring it against the level of blood in the glass beside him. A fine sheen of sweat glimmered against Sherlock's pale skin beneath the glare of the large overhead light. As John watched, his thin chest rose and fell with shallow rapid breaths. He had a little over two and a half pints, and was beginning to show signs of having entered the second stage of hypovolemia, quickly nearing the third. John shifted his eyes back to Moriarty to find the man watching him with intense fascination.

"You have surprised me, Doctor." Moriarty stated with a pleased smile before shifting his gaze in Lestrade's direction. "As have you, Inspector. You are both far more intelligent than Sherlock gives you credit for." The cold eyes moved back to John. "And you, Doctor…such loyalty…and admirable quality." The man let out a soft sigh of false remorse as moved closer to the table. "It is truly a pity that I cannot let you live."

John stepped closer to the screen, his eyes hardening.

"Why the game? Why waste your time if you meant to kill us all along."

Hate flared within the man's cold eyes as he turned to face the screen and then it cooled suddenly, vanishing as if it had never existed. "That, my dear boy, is for me alone to know. You have served your purpose and for that I thank you." He gave them a slight mocking bow. "And now your usefulness has come to an end."

Moriarty moved around the back of the table. "Before you die however, I did promise to allow your friend to say his goodbyes." He reached out quickly and a loud slap of skin against skin sounded.

Red filled John's vision as he surged toward the screen as he shouted his protests at the rough treatment as Sherlock's head lolled to the side. He felt a pair of strong arms grab at him and pulling him back…and Lestrade's calm voice in his ear. "Stand down, John. Don't let him get inside your head." He nodded tightly, his eyes never leaving the screen even as Lestrade's grip fell away. John stilled as a pair of familiar groggy eyes met his.

"Sherlock." John uttered. His hand clenched uselessly around the grip of his weapon as he registered the brief flash of fear in the detective's pale eyes.

"Say goodbye to your pet, Sherlock. You won't be seeing him again."

As John watched, his friend's eyes widened, his gaze shifting frantically from John to the door behind him and then back again as if he were trying to warn him. The detective's lips twitched though no sound emerged and John understood. It was a trap; it had been a trap all along. They had to get out of the building…now. John nodded slightly indicating that he understood, holding his friend's gaze for a beat. "I'm coming for you." He promised, and then tearing his eyes from Sherlock's with a near Herculean effort, he spun suddenly and shoved Lestrade toward the open door with all of his strength. "Hold on!" He yelled at the screen before following the man out the door.

"Farewell." Moriarty's voice mocked.

The image was replaced with a digital clock…its numbers slowly counting down.

Lestrade shouted for all to abort the search and clear the building as they ran past the rows of abandoned carpets, past the van…and toward the open door.

In the small room the countdown reached its conclusion, pausing briefly as it reached zero.

And then the world exploded in a cloud of fire and mortar as the building came tumbling down.

oOo

Across town two pairs of eyes watched with differing emotion as the image on the screen fizzled and then went dark. The room was silent for a moment, apart from the labored breathing of the man lying on the table, and then the man startled as the other clapped his hands together loudly.

"Well that was rather anticlimactic, was it not? Perhaps the next time, I should have cameras installed outside of the building as well as in." Moriarty remarked casually as he rubbed his palms together. The cold eyes lowered to study his prey, a mocking smile on his thin lips. "More dramatic, don't you think?"

Fury spread like fire through Sherlock's sluggish veins at the man's callous remark. To his surprise, and his opponent's, he suddenly shot upward off the table, his thin cold fingers wrapping around the man's throat. The moment was short lived, however as Moriarty merely grinned as the detective slumped back against the table in a boneless panting heap as his strength failed him.

"My, my." Moriarty stated as he leaned closer, his eyes studying Sherlock with barely disguised glee. "Are you still trying to win?"

Sherlock glared weakly at the man as he fought to slow the painful breathing. He held his opponent's gaze as Moriarty leaned closer, cocking his head to the side as a cold grin spread across his face.

"It is useless, you know." The man purred as he took the detective's chin between his fingers and forced him to turn his head toward the hourglass. "You friends are dead. No one knows where you are. You have no hope of rescue." The man leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You've failed, Holmes. You've failed and I've won."

The words echoed through Sherlock's mind, keeping time with the rapid pulse pounding in his ears. His eyes slid close as he felt a strange numbness overtake him. What if his warning had come too late. John had understood, he was certain that he had, and yet what if it had all been in vain. What if they had died as Moriarty claimed. He swallowed weakly against the hard lump that had lodged in his throat. What if John were dead…and Lestrade as well…who would be left to stop Moriarty?

The table shuddered slightly as his nemesis moved away. Sherlock watched as the man came to a stop before the table which held the hourglass, reaching out to finger the valve which controlled the flow of blood from the tube into the glass.

"I had planned to watch you die, you know. Until the last bit of your life was drained away. But alas, time is short and I have much to do." Moriarty remarked as his grip tightened on the small bit of plastic. "However, I could end your life in a few short moments with just one quick twist of this switch."

Sherlock watched with listless eyes, hope fading as the man withdrew his hand after a moment of contemplation, a cold smile on his thin face. "Then again, I believe that it would be greater torture to leave you to contemplate your failure, alone and in the dark, as your time literally runs out."

Sherlock let his eyes drift shut as he heard Moriarty move away, his measured pace echoing through the small room.

"Farewell, Sherlock Holmes."

The strange stone on metal sound returned and then the room was plunged into darkness. All was silent with the exception of the ever present sound of his blood dripping into the hourglass. Nearly three pints of blood had drained…only two left to go…and yet he found that he no longer cared.

If Moriarty was right, if the game was over, then he had failed…and his friends had paid for his failure. If Moriarty was right, John was dead…

…and yet he could not ignore the small nagging voice which whispered repeatedly in his head.

_I'm coming for you._

_Hold on_.

Hold on…two more hours. He would hold on for two more hours and then it would be over

…one way or another.

_Author's note: Thank you for all of the kind reviews, favorites and story alerts. Each one motivates me to finish the next chapter that much sooner. Hope you are still enjoying the story. Thank you for reading. I value your feedback. Also for those of you who are in angst over the ending of Season 2, I recommend reading Arthur Conan Doyle's original stories The Final Problem and the Empty House. They may ease your mind enough to get you through until Season 3. _


	5. Chapter 5

_11:00 pm_

_Three pints down…two to go…_

John watched solemnly as their best, and only, lead to Sherlock's location literally went up in smoke.

Small bits of soot fell like snow from the dark clouds that billowed upward from the blazing remains of the warehouse. He reached out a hand and caught a piece in his palm. It fell apart as he pressed it with his thumb, leaving a small smear of black against his skin. John rubbed his hand clean against the damp, tattered fabric of his jacket as he considered the irony of his latest brush with death. From the threat of drowning beneath the frigid waters of Ness to the threat of vaporization in a fiery explosion…the past 48 hours were certainly not among his finest.

There had been not one but two explosions. The first had detonated just as the last of Lestrade's team had cleared the building, though the resulting shockwave had sent them scattering. The second had occurred a full five minutes later, a fact which had most likely saved a number of lives, just as those who had avoided major injury managed to drag the last of the wounded into the relative protection of the alleyway and away from the growing inferno. The weathered brick of the buildings held up well against the blast, though the structures quickly succumbed to the flames which spread as pieces of burning debris rained down from the smoke choked sky.

Lestrade had ordered the teams to fall back to the rendezvous site, which was located several blocks away from the burning warehouse in a large open lot next to the old marina. The fire brigade had arrived on site a few moments later, followed closely by two teams of paramedics. Lestrade had vanished into the mass of activity in the general direction of the makeshift command center, a limping Bradstreet trailing in his wake. John had settled into the all too familiar task of assisting the overwhelmed paramedics with the triage and treatment of the wounded. Apart from one unfortunate Yarder who had been thrown head first into a wall, the remaining injuries were limited to a few broken bones, minor burns and a lot of bruising. The injured man had been quickly loaded into an ambulance and taken to St. Bart's, while the second paramedic team with John's assistance dealt the remainder. That is until one rather young looking paramedic took notice of the large goose egg on the side of John's temple and his unsteady sway as he pushed to his feet after splinting Hopkin's broken arm. Much to his chagrin, John found himself firmly seated out of the way with an ice pack, an orange shock blanket round his shoulders and strict orders not to move. Too exhausted to argue, John did as he was told.

A sharp crack echoed through the night, followed by a loud crash of falling beams and the sharp tinkling of broken glass, as a second structure fell beneath the onslaught of the spreading blaze. John watched as firemen spilled backward out of the fog, heavy hoses trailing behind them over the rain and soot slickened pavement like bloated anacondas, as they struggled to hold the new perimeter. The flames behind them lent an eerie glow to the ever thickening fog…and for a brief moment John's pain hazed mind gave it life as it pulsed forward, creeping through the alleyways like the breath of a mythical dragon…or some unspeakable evil akin to that which had spawned it. John closed his eyes, ignoring the dull throbbing in his skull as he attempted to recall all that he could from the moment of the grisly discovery of Joshua Tipton's body to the harried flight from the warehouse. Perhaps there was something he had missed…some clue that would lead him to Sherlock. He refused to accept defeat…not after they had fought so hard and suffered so much.

Moriarty could not, would not win.

Not on his watch.

He slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket, his cold fingers sliding around the broken pieces of what was left of his mobile. For better or for worse, the mocking messages were no more. The tech team at NSY had managed to decipher a second signal imbedded within the first, but it too had been lost in the explosion. He let out a weary sigh as a wave of fatigue swept through him and the dull throbbing in his skull was joined by a feeling of nausea. John released the phone and returned his hand to his head, gently probing the bruised area around the spot where it had glanced off the ground. He absently diagnosed the symptoms as a possible concussion, a slight one but a concussion none the less. His fingers moved to rub against the bridge of his nose as he calculated the likelihood of his ability to mask the symptoms from the paramedics for a few more hours.

A tight humorless laugh escaped his lips as his pain hazed mind found the irony in the fact that he was plotting to do the very thing that so often had resulted in contention with his flatmate. The last incident had occurred less than a month ago, after he had arrived in the nick of time to save the detective from a potentially fatal tumble down the stairs of the Baker Street flat. Sherlock had declared with fever glazed eyes that crime waited for no man and that he was perfectly able to track down the killer without the assistance of his 'nagging nanny'. He had then managed to open the front door and had promptly fainted into the arms of one very startled DI Lestrade. Life was never dull with Sherlock. The small grin faded from John's face as he recalled the fear he had seen in Sherlock's pale eyes through the video screen. Not fear for himself…but fear for his friends. John swallowed thickly against the knot which had lodged itself in his throat. Sherlock's warning had saved their lives yet again…possibly at the cost of his own. A strong sense of helplessness swept through John as he buried the fingers of his free hand into his thick hair.

"John?"

With some small effort, John shoved his dark thoughts back into the furthest corners of his mind and opened his eyes to find a pair of soot and mud streaked trousers before him. He lowered the ice pack as Lestrade squatted to his level.

"Are you all right?"

John nodded carefully, mindful of his throbbing head, as he swept the inspector out of habit with a physician's practiced gaze. Exhaustion was evident in his friend's movement and he seemed to be favoring his left shoulder a bit. His dark eyes held a mixture of concern…and something that looked suspiciously like hope.

"What is it?" John demanded as he surged to his feet, the orange blanket pooling against the wet pavement like a puddle of toxic waste. He regretted his rash action immediately as the world began to tilt. Lestrade's hand wrapped around his upper arm steadying him and John frowned as he caught the quick glance the inspector gave toward the ambulance beside them.

"I'm fine." He began. A weary smile pulled at the edges of his mouth as his friend raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. "If it will make you happy, I'll let them give me a through exam after we find Sherlock, yeah?"

Lestrade nodded, appeased for the moment. He reached up and ran a rough hand through his thick silvering hair, frowning absently as it shook loose a small dusting of soot. "The second team just reported in. They found Theodore Walsh."

"Alive?"

A tendril of hope wove through him as Lestrade nodded. "He's in pretty bad shape but he's conscious. They are bringing him in. I thought you might like to be there when they do."

John nodded. "Lead the way."

Before he could take more than two steps, the young paramedic appeared at his side demanding that he remain where he was. With his patience stretched to its limit, John prepared to tell the man exactly what he could do with his orders and his ice pack. Before he could do so, Lestrade, most likely sensing a potential altercation, stepped between them and smoothly negotiated a truce. The man grudgingly allowed John to sign the release papers, dismissing him with a packet of pain pills and an order that he at least check in with his own doctor in the morning. Eager to get on with the search, John muttered an agreement, swallowing the pills dry as he turned to follow the grinning inspector.

"I'm a doctor and I will do as I bloody well please." He muttered when they were safely out of earshot.

His annoyance faded and weary grin graced his face as Lestrade let out a snort of laughter at the remark. The two gathered odd looks as they made their way across the lot to the far end where the ambulance waited for Walsh's arrival.

"So it's true then." Lestrade remarked with as he pulled himself under control. "Physicians really are the worst patients."

"I could say the same about a few stubborn inspectors." He stated as he shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket.

Bradstreet gave the men an odd look as they joined him, but was prevented from questioning them as a pair of black SUVs arrived on scene. Lestrade motioned for John to wait before moving forward as the doors of the lead vehicle opened. John watched as the paramedics moved to assist as two men carefully lifted a third from the rear of the second vehicle. They settled the man carefully onto a stretcher and moved back as the paramedics began to assess his condition. John quickly crossed the small distance as Lestrade waved him over; his stomach churned as he took in the extent of the damage. Walsh looked as if he had gone five rounds with a meat grinder…and lost. One eye was hidden beneath a swollen mass of black and blue, its mate fairing only a little better. The remainder of his face was a mass of dried blood and bruises. His breathing was shallow and rapid, suggesting possible internal injuries and both of his legs appeared to be broken. Despite his part in Sherlock's abduction, John could not help be feel a small bit of sympathy for the man. Given the extent of his injuries, he was amazed the man was conscious at all.

Lestrade moved forward as one of the paramedics stepped back to allow him room.

"Mr. Walsh, I'm Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

The man on the stretcher let out a soft whimper of pain as he struggled to open his eye. "He killed my mate. The bloody bloke killed Josh."

"Joshua Tipton?" Lestrade asked gently.

Walsh nodded slightly. "Just a prank..." He drew in a sharp breathy sob. "Just a bit of fun he said… told Josh…dodgy."

"What was dodgy?" Lestrade questioned as Walsh struggled to catch his breath.

He shifted to the side as a paramedic place an oxygen mask gently over the man's battered nose and mouth. After a moment Walsh, slowly calmed enough to continue.

"Mr. Walsh, where is the man you and Mr. Tipton removed from the 221b Baker Street flat?"

Walsh let out a half sob half laugh in response, reaching up with a shaking hand to pull the mask away. His eye shifted over the inspector's shoulder, meeting John's.

"Didn't…" He wheezed.

John stepped forward, his eyes hard and his voice cold. "We have a witness who saw you and Tipton carry a rug from the flat shortly after he disappeared. He wasn't in the flat; therefore you must have hidden him in the rug. Where did you take him?"

Walsh swallowed unsteadily, lips trembling as he cowered beneath the doctor's steady glare.

"Just a rug." He sobbed. "…prank."

"What do you mean 'just a rug'?" John demanded as he moved closer.

Walsh mumbled incoherently as he turned his head away, tears milling will the blood streaked on his face. The paramedic gave John a warning look as he settled the mask over the injured man's face once more. John forced his anger down as he tried one last time.

"The man who killed your friend still has mine. Please…help me save him."

Walsh quieted, slumping boneless against the gurney…and said nothing.

"Mr. Walsh?" John reached out and pressed his fingers against the man's throat. He swallowed his disappointment as he moved back to allow the paramedics access. "He's alive, just fainted."

Lestrade joined him as the stretcher was quickly packed into the waiting ambulance. He assigned a constable to go with them with orders to call if the injured man regained consciousness. John stood by silently as his brain struggled to process the information. If Walsh was telling the truth and they hadn't taken Sherlock from the building, where was he now? No one had been seen either entering or leaving the building in the time between the departure of the two men and the arrival of the police. Both structures had been searched with no luck…and yet John couldn't help feel as if he were missing something very important…

"Greg!"

Lestrade turned quickly in response to John's shout.

"We need to get back to Baker Street. Now!"

oOo

Drip…

_Four hundred and sixty four_

Drip…

_Four hundred and sixty five_

Drip…

Drip…

Drip…

A shallow gasp echoed through the dark room as Sherlock forced himself to stay awake. It was becoming more difficult to breathe….more difficult to fight the comforting darkness which lingered on the edges of his mind…more difficult to remember why he should fight it…

Drip…

A violent shudder ran unheeded through his frame, shaking him from head to toe, as the cool air of the room chilled his sweat dampened skin. Exhaustion weighed heavy against his mind, confusing his thoughts…he was losing the ability to concentrate…to think…and it frightened him. Sherlock forced himself to deepen his breathing, focusing on the one thing he could still control…

_In and out_

Drip…

_In and out_

Drip…

He relaxed as his mind began to slowly clear, as the oxygen worked its way into his thinning blood stream. He began to focus on his rapid heart rate, attempting to slow it with a technique he had learned during his brief wanderings in Asia. It had begun as an experiment as to the amount of control the mind had over the body. It was an exercise he found both therapeutic and useful, particularly now as his struggling pulse began to even out. Better…yes, much better.

Drip…

Sherlock frowned as he turned his attention to the matter of time. Time had no meaning within the oppressive darkness which surrounded him. Moriarty had left him with nothing other than the sound of his blood dripping into the hourglass to keep him company. However, little did his nemesis know that he had once conducted an experiment which had involved the measurement of distance by counting the seconds between the time it took for a water droplet to fall. The principle was nearly the same with the hourglass; by measuring the time it took for the drip to fall, he should be able to determine a rough estimate of the current level of liquid in the hour glass.

Drip…

His brow furrowed as he struggled to do the math in his head…a task which had seemed effortless only a few hours earlier. It smoothed as he compared the data with his current symptoms: rapid heart rate, shallow rapid breathing, difficulty concentrating, cold sweat… Sherlock estimated that the level within the glass was quickly nearing the four pint mark…which meant he had a little over an hour left.

Drip…

He felt his body relax of its own accord as he listened to the steady rhythm of the hourglass. Moriarty had been right about one thing…the sound was strangely therapeutic. He felt the warm tendrils of sleep weave through his mind, coaxing him to give in and take the rest he deserved. Why should he fight it when the end was inevitable…and yet something would not let him surrender…

Drip…

_Hold on_

His body flinched against the cold table, as if it had experienced an electric shock, as a pair of steel blue eyes flooded his mind. Familiar eyes. First accusing…then pleading…

_Hold on_

"John."

He flinched as the word rasped against his sensitive ears. John. He had promised that he was coming…and Sherlock knew he would be disappointed if his flatmate discovered that he had given up so easily. And then there was the fact that Moriarty was still out there somewhere…plotting…killing… As long as his nemesis lived his friends…his family would be at risk. He had to keep fighting…he could not leave this world until Moriarty left it first.

Drip…

Sherlock let his mind relax as he focused his remaining energy toward fending off the strengthening darkness…reaching deep within himself to find the strength he needed to hold on…

_I'm coming for you_…

Drip…

_One_

Drip…

_Two_

oOo

_When you eliminate the impossible..._

John was out of the SUV and running toward the police line before the vehicle slowed to a stop. The slam of door and sound of hard boots against the pavement of the walk assured him that Lestrade and Bradstreet were less than a few steps behind. Light spilled onto the street through the naked windows of the building before them.

_Whatever remains…no matter how improbable…_

A pair of police constables stepped aside allowing them entry at Lestrade's order. The three men slowed as they entered the house, pausing in the center of the entry hall.

"Must be the truth." John finished softly as his eyes swept the well lit hall.

It was one of Sherlock's favorite idioms. One he quoted often…one John had witnessed the detective prove time and time again. One he hoped held true in this case as well…

_Begin with the facts…_

Fact 1: Sherlock had been seen entering 221 around 6 o'clock that evening. Fact 2: Walsh and Tipton had been seen exiting 223 around 7 o'clock that evening carrying a large rolled rug. Fact 3: No one else had been seen entering or exiting the building with the exception of the arrival of the police around 8:30 that evening. Fact 4: Though Sherlock's coat had been found inside the lorry, Walsh had claimed that Sherlock himself had not been taken from the building.

In light of the facts, the conclusion, no matter how improbable it seemed, had to be the truth.

"He's still here." John stated. "Sherlock is somewhere in this building."

Lestrade accepted the statement without argument, quickly issuing orders to his remaining men to search the building for trap doors, hidden compartments and/or additional holes cut into walls. John hurried up the stairs, choosing to begin his search where the evidence had confirmed that Sherlock had entered the building. With their small force of searchers, they quickly cleared the third floor. The official evidence trail had ended on the second floor in the room where Bradstreet had discovered Sherlock's discarded scarf. These rooms too were quickly swept and dismissed, as were the few rooms on the first floor. Only the ground floor remained.

John paused at the foot of the stairs as the thought which had been eluding him finally struck him. Apart from a few minor exceptions, the building had roughly the same layout as 221…and if this were the case then there was one additional section that had remained untouched…He spun around the corner of the staircase, heading for the rear of the building toward the kitchen area. Capped wires hung from a faceless socket where the light switch should have been located as he entered the room. John fished his torch from his pocket, switching it on quickly as he panned the area with the thin beam. A pair of brilliant lights joined his as Lestrade and Bradstreet entered a moment later.

"There is no wine cooler." He stated as he began to play his light along the edge of the flooring. "Mrs. Hudson mentioned once that the owners were wine connoisseurs, and yet they have no wine cooler."

"The cellar." Lestrade replied as he moved quickly along the opposite side of the room, vanishing into a wide pantry. "There must be a cellar."

Unlike the entrance to the cellar beneath 221, there was no additional doorway which led to a flight of stairs…and yet there must be an entrance somewhere.

John paused as he stepped through a doorway into a narrow room was most likely at one time a maid's chamber. He played his light over the small washer and dryer set against the wall beside a tall shelf, which was empty with the exception of a mallet, a small bottle of paste and a tin of paint. He lowered the light as he felt a change in the flooring beneath his shoes, frowning as he knelt and ran one hand over the rough berber fabric of the carpet. He shifted the beam outward to scan along the edges of the wall and along the bottom of the appliances. His eyes narrowed slightly as he shifted forward and slid his fingers beneath the washer. John set the torch on the floor and slid his opposite hand beneath the appliance and pulled. The carpet rolled back easily, revealing wood planking beneath, similar to that of the kitchen. A further tug revealed the object they had been searching for…a trap door cut into the flooring.

"Lestrade! Bradstreet! In here." He bellowed as he tore the carpet free, running his fingertips along the edges of the seam. A heavy ring was set into the top of the door, fitted perfectly into the wood plank. He paused as his fingers brushed the cool metal, then slowly pulled his hand back as he stood.

"Better bring in the explosive sweepers to be safe, and a large mallet." He stated as Lestrade joined him. "It appears to be locked."

Lestrade convinced him to retreat as far as the entry hall as they allowed the team access to the room. John borrowed the inspector's mobile to call St. Bart's to send an ambulance with a supply of blood and plasma from Sherlock's private stock, a contingency plan Mycroft had established with his brother's reluctant approval. For a man who adored experimenting on dismembered corpses, Sherlock had a near phobic fear when it came to needles. However, even he conceded to the logic of their request as he had a rare blood type and often found himself in life threatening situations.

Lestrade led the way as an 'all clear' call filtered from the rear of the house. The explosives team retreated into the kitchen to make way for the men as Lestrade motioned for Bradstreet to move forward with the battering ram. The lock splintered easily beneath the first blow. Bradstreet moved to the side, exchanging the ram for his weapon as Lestrade reached down and grasped the iron ring. He paused a brief moment to meet John's eye. John tightened his grip on his own gun and nodded, his eyes focused on the doorway…and then Lestrade wrenched the trap door open, stepping backward as it struck the floor behind it with a loud clunk.

Silence greeted them from below…silence and darkness.

"This is Scotland Yard. We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands above your head." Lestrade shouted into the hole.

A moment ticked by…and then another, but no movement was heard. Lestrade nodded to Bradstreet as the big man retrieved his torch and angled it downward, revealing a ladder. Lestrade holstered his gun, accepting a second light and carefully made his way into the cellar below. John followed a moment latter…and disappointment flooded through him as his light glinted the racks of wine bottles which stretched the full length of the wall.

"John, over here."

Lestrade's voice echoed through the space. John made his way across the room to where Lestrade knelt, studying the floor at the base of the far wall. The room grew lighter as Bradstreet joined them, playing his light along the walls. John knelt beside the inspector as he studied the faint grooves scratched into the surface of the concrete. His light played to the shelf set into the wall. It appeared solid enough, and yet… John stood and moved back, his light playing over the dimensions of the room.

"It's too small. This room is half the size of the floor above."

The wide beam from Lestrade's torch swept over the wall above the marks. He reached forward and gently gave the rack in front of him a tug. To his surprise it swung easily toward him, on a set of carefully disguised hinges along its opposite side. The inspector pushed the shelving to the side as he ran the fingers of his opposite hand along the uneven stone wall behind it. A soft click echoed as section of the stone moved inward, and a soft grinding noise sounded as the wall slid backward to reveal a doorway. Lestrade vanished through the crack and a shout echoed a moment later as a bright light spilled through the opening. John pushed through, his heart racing as his eyes took in the scene before him.

Lestrade stood beside a narrow metal table, his fingers pressed against the throat of the very pale, very still figure of Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock."

"He's alive." Lestrade breathed as his eyes met John's, a wide grin stretched across his face. "Thank God, he's alive."

He moved aside, shouting for Bradstreet to bring in the paramedics, as John joined him beside the table. Sherlock's normally pale skin held a bluish, nearly translucent tint beneath the harsh light. His chest rose and fell with steady, shallow breaths. John quickly settled a steadying hand over his friend's thin wrist as he grasped the iv and slid it free with the other, letting the tube fall to the floor as he pressed his palm securely against the sluggishly bleeding wound. John looked down as Sherlock flinched slightly beneath his steady grip. The detective let out a shallow gasp and then whispered a word. John's eyes flicked upward to meet Lestrade's incredulous look.

"Is he counting?" The inspector asked.

John let out a soft, slightly hysterical laugh as he gently tightened his grip around his flatmate's wrist. It faded a moment later as a frown took its place.

"His pulse is growing more erratic." He stated, worry creeping into his voice. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Voices echoed through the room on the other side of the passage signaling the arrival of the paramedics. John shouted for them to hurry as his eyes scanned the unresponsive features of his friend. As he watched, Sherlock's chest rose and fell with a shallow breath…and then stilled. John swore as he swiftly bent, pressing his ear against Sherlock's thin chest…listening…to nothing. The paramedics reached them as John straightened.

"He's not breathing."

A mask was quickly settled over the detective's pale face; a gloved hand pressed against the attached bulb forcing air into the detective's lungs as they began the fight to keep him alive. John watched with a sense of detachment as he stated the facts he had gathered to the two men. A gloved hand gently grasped his wrist, urging him to release his grip on Sherlock's arm…the hand currently pressed against the wound left behind by the iv…

"We've got him, sir. Please move aside."

He slowly released his grip, allowing the medic to secure a large square of gaze bandage against the wound. A hand wrapped around his upper arm, gently urging him to step away from the table…and he resisted, hovering closer to his friend…his brother…

"Don't you dare give up, Sherlock." He ordered firmly, in a voice that had both seasoned soldiers and medical interns trembling. "Do you hear me?"

The grip on his arm grew stronger as it was joined by another…and he allowed them to pull him away…

"Don't you dare give up now."

_Author's note: Yes I know – I am evil to leave you hanging once more. It was honestly not my original intention; however the chapter just kind of took a mind of its own and demanded it. I am writing the next (and possibly last) chapter now and will hopefully have it up before too terribly long. Thank you again for the feedback, the story alerts and the favorite tags. I truly value your feedback and am honored you are still both following and enjoying this story. – more to come! _


	6. Chapter 6

_4:00 am November 1__st_

Sleep heavy blue eyes watched serenely as the blanket covering Sherlock's thin chest gently rose and fell with each breath. A weary sigh echoed through the quiet room as John released his loose grip on his friend's arm and relaxed back against the stiff plastic cushions of the hospital chair. He shifted his gaze to the monitors perched on the rack beside the bed, lingering for a moment on the sleeping detective's pulse and blood pressure readings. His forehead furrowed. While it was true that Sherlock's condition was finally beginning to improve, the process was moving a bit slower than John would have liked. In addition to the fact that it ironically took longer to safely transfuse blood into someone that it did to drain it out of them, there had been as always with Sherlock a few complications.

Sherlock rasped a soft cough into the oxygen mask which rested against the lower portion of his pale face. John's frown deepened as he shifted forward in his chair, his free hand settling of its own accord against Sherlock's forehead. The low grade fever, which had appeared shortly after Sherlock's arrival at the hospital, still lingered…though, thankfully, it had not worsened. John removed his hand, listening intently as his flatmate's breathing evened and he relaxed without waking. The faint rattle remained as his breath whispered against the plastic of the mask.

The cold of the damp cellar combined with the stress of the blood loss had weakened Sherlock, making him susceptible to infection. The physician on duty at the time of his admittance had confirmed John's suspicions of pneumonia. The good news, however, was that they had managed to catch it early; with antibiotics and sufficient rest, John suspected his flatmate would be back to his normal charming self in no time. Time they now had to spare…

Against all odds, his friend had survived Moriarty's hellish game...

John rubbed his face with a rough hand as he resisted the strong pull of sleep. He couldn't rest, not yet. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose as he straightened in his chair, his eyes shifting to the bag hanging from the post beside the bed. They trailed the length of the dark tubing to where it disappeared beneath the towel which hid the IV drip from Sherlock's view.

He had ripped out two in his delirium: the first in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. The unfortunate paramedic had suffered a broken nose for his efforts. The uncertainty of the drug Moriarty had used had prevented them from giving Sherlock a sedative at the time. However, he had saved them the trouble by fainting shortly after his outburst. The second incident had occurred a little over an hour earlier as the nurse was exchanging the bags. John had managed to break through his friend's delirium and had succeeded in convincing Sherlock to allow him to reinsert the drip.

Even now the memory of the fear he had witnessed in his friend's clouded eyes made John's stomach twist. The nurse suggested loose restraints to prevent him from hurting himself, but John had adamantly refused. Sherlock had already suffered too much. John could not in good conscience allow him to be restrained against his will…not again…not even for his own good. As a compromise he allowed a mild sedative to be administered to help Sherlock to rest easier. So far it seemed to be working. Another hour, maybe two and the transfusions would be complete. Then he would see about having the drip removed…and perhaps finally get some rest himself.

The soft rustle of fabric drew John's attention to the low cot set against the far wall of the room. A warm smile stretched across his face as he turned to find the room's third occupant watching him. Lestrade's team had found a second hidden door in the cellar, this time leading to a set of forgotten tunnels thought to have once been a part of the Underground. The tunnels, as well as the area surrounding Baker Street, had been thoroughly searched with no sign of Moriarty. With the criminal mastermind still at large, Lestrade had insisted that they remain under the Yard's protection for the time being. Mary had needed no convincing, indicating her intention to remain with John at the hospital. He was grateful for her supportive presence, though he still felt guilt at the fact that she was involved.

Mary returned his smile as she sat up slowly, throwing back the thin blankets as she ran a hand through her sleep tousled curls. He reached out as she stood, taking her hand and tugging her gently to him. She came willingly as he pulled her onto his lap, curling into him as he cradled her close. John buried his nose against her hair, relaxing as the soft scent of vanilla and lavender drowned out the ever present smell of antiseptic…and the lingering stench of smoke and soot which still clung to him. For the first time that night…or morning to be more precise…John felt the tension begin to drain from his body.

"How is Sherlock?" she asked quietly, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Better." John replied softly before brushing a kiss against her temple. "Sleeping."

Mary pulled back as she raised a hand to trace the bandage secured over the goose egg at his hairline. He allowed her to tilt his head, shifting so that she could better examine his injuries.

"How are you feeling?" She asked as gently.

John smiled as he met her concerned gaze with a reassuring one of his own.

"Never better." He replied softly. "The two most important people in my life are both safe and well and here with me now. What more could I want?" He asked as he gently pressed his forehead against hers.

"You might not want to let Sherlock hear you say that. He would never let you live it down." Mary's grin widened at his soft snort.

"True. Heart of gold, that one."

Mary hummed a soft agreement, her smile softening at the fondness in his tone. "Well hidden, but it is there." She murmured as she settled back into his arms. "I knew you would find him."

"What made you so certain?" He asked after a moment.

He felt her smile against his shoulder as she fingered the small tears in his jumper. "Because you are John Watson," She said softly, pulling back so she could meet his eyes. "And John Watson's sense of loyalty and honor would never let him give up when a friend was in danger." Her eyes shone wet beneath the soft glow of the lamp as she continued. "I knew that you would find him, or that you would die trying." The last bit came at a whisper.

"Mary.." His words were silenced as she pressed her fingers against his mouth.

"No, John." Mary continued, as she leaned her forehead against his. She removed her fingers, brushing them along his jaw as she continued. "I understand. It is part of who you are…and one of the things I love most about you."

John remained silent for a moment, overwhelmed by her words; he wondered, and not for the first time, what he had done to deserve her. He closed the distance between them, capturing her lips with his.

For a moment, they managed to forget the hellish events of the night…for a moment, nothing else existed…

…until a muffled snore reminded them that they were not alone.

John trembled with barely restrained laughter as he brushed a kiss against his fiancée's blush stained cheek. He pulled her close, burying his face in her soft curls as she melted against him.

"I love you." He murmured.

"I know."

His smile slipped in confusion as Mary extracted herself from his arms and stood. Before he could protest, she took his hands in her smaller ones and tugged him to his feet. She gave him a knowing look as he was unable to mask a small groan as his bruised body protested the movement.

"You need to rest, John." She murmured quietly as she led him toward the cot. "I'll sit with Sherlock for a while."

John surrendered without protest as she gently pushed him down onto the cot. "Wake me if he gives you any trouble." He ordered with a weary smile.

"I promise."

He toed off his shoes and relaxed as Mary pulled the blankets over him, tucking him in like a child. The cot was hard, but comfortable. He could feel sleep beginning to cloud his mind. He closed his eyes and relaxed as Mary's fingers combed soothingly through his hair.

"Sweet dreams, my love."

oOo

John woke with a nagging feeling that something was not quite right. He remained still, his breathing deep and even as he listened. The room was quiet apart from the sound of Sherlock's steady breathing and the ever present heart monitor. He listened to both for a moment before moving on.

It was as if there had been a shift in the very air itself…a shift in the Force.

He opened his eyes a slit. The room was still dark; he couldn't have been asleep for long. He opened his eyes wider and then shut them with a groan.

"What are you doing here?" John bit out through a tightly clenched jaw. "And what have you done with my fiancée?"

"Really, Dr. Watson, I am afraid my brother is beginning to rub off on you. I had rather hoped it would have been the other way around." Came the measure reply. It was followed by a soft humorless chuckle.

"You haven't answered my question." John stated as he concentrated on sitting upright. His body felt as if it were one large bruise; the dull pain only served to fuel his ire as he glared at the man.

"Ms. Morestan, I believe, is currently in the cafeteria with Detective Inspector Lestrade. She should return before too long."

John nodded tersely as he focused his attention pulling on his shoes taking a moment to reign in his tightly controlled anger. He stood and moved stiffly toward the end of bed, ignoring Mycroft's steady gaze as he retrieved Sherlock's chart.

"How is he?"

John's ingrained sense of professionalism overruled his petty desire to ignore the older Holmes. No matter how much he really, really wanted to. He took a moment to scan the notations before returning the chart to its hook.

"He's had four transfusions and pneumonia." He stated quietly. "He's responding well to treatment and, barring unforeseen complications, should recover in a few days."

John moved to the far side of the room under the pretense of studying the monitors, effectively placing his sleeping flatmate between them. He folded his arms tight across his chest as he fought the strong urge to shove Mycroft against a wall…or perhaps toss him bodily from the room. As much as he would like to, he knew he could not…at least not yet.

First he required answers.

"Where were you?" John stated with a deadly quiet, his eyes studying his flatmate's pale features. He was please to see that a small bit of Sherlock's color had returned, the translucent blue fading into a more familiar ivory shade. "Moriarty had him taken from the flat, a flat that _you_ had under surveillance. Don't try to deny it, the Yard found the cameras."

John frowned as Sherlock shifted restlessly in his sleep. He laid a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder and murmured a few soft words. After a moment, Sherlock relaxed.

"Where…?" His voice trailed as a wave of fatigue swept through him, dissolving the anger. His hand hovered for a moment above the pristine white bandage which covered the point where Moriarty's contraption had pierced the detective's skin. John withdrew it with a heavy sigh, clenching his hand tightly as he let it fall back to his side. "Where were you when he needed you?"

The words fell from his lips without venom.

"I was unavoidably detained by a matter of great importance." Came the soft reply after a beat.

John let out a soft humorless laugh. "More important than your brother's life?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

John shifted his gaze toward the man in response to the unfamiliar weariness which colored Mycroft's tone. His frown deepened as the man turned to face him. A vivid bruise darkened the side of his smooth jaw, and he leaned heavily against his ever present umbrella as if it, and the chair, were all that held him upright.

"In my line of work, often loyalty to the crown must come before all else. Even loyalty to one's family." He continued in a soft measured tone. "More has occurred this night, Dr. Watson, than the kidnapping of my brother…things that I cannot share with you at this time…or likely ever." Weariness dripped from his voice as he continued. "I can tell you that the combined effort of tonight's events, if they had succeeded, would have very likely resulted in the fall of Great Britain." He let out a slow measured sigh through his nose as he did something that chilled John to the core.

Mycroft Holmes _slouched_.

John was certain that action alone must be a sign of Armageddon…brimstone, fire, and Mycroft Holmes's sudden lack of perfect posture. He paused as the unfathomable eyes met his. A small bit of humor shone within their depths for a brief moment, as if the older man had sensed his thoughts.

"We won the battle tonight; but the war is still before us." He stated quietly as he returned his gaze to his sleeping brother. "James Moriarty will not go down without a fight."

"Neither will Sherlock Holmes." John stated softly.

A small smile played at Mycroft's mouth. "Nor Doctor Watson."

He stood, folding his hands over the curved handle of his umbrella. "Moriarty was sighted in Paris nearly an hour ago, boarding a train to Zurich." He stated quietly. "Security will be increased as a precaution, for Ms. Morestan as well."

John nodded his thanks.

"The flat is undergoing repairs, with a few minor upgrades. It will be ready for your return by the time Sherlock is released." With that Mycroft turned and made his way toward the door, pausing with one hand on the handle. He let his hand fall as he turned to face John, meeting his eyes.

"I am eternally in your debt, John, for saving my brother's life." Momentarily stunned, John managed a small nod of acknowledgement as Mycroft turned and opened the door. "He is lucky to have a so loyal a friend."

The door closed quietly behind the older Holmes, leaving John in a stunned silence. First the slouch and now an expression of gratitude…yes the world was definitely coming to an end. He let out a small laugh and gave his head a shake as he moved around the bed, dropping wearily into the chair. He was getting too bloody old for this.

"He's right, you know."

John's head shot up, his weariness forgotten as a wide grin stretched unheeded across his face at the sound of the familiar voice. "Hey there, welcome back."

The smile dimmed as Sherlock reached up and pulled the mask from his face.

"You should really leave that on." John ordered as he reached for it.

Sherlock batted his hand away weakly with a petulant look upon his face.

"Breathing is boring."

A small smile tweaked at the edges of the thin mouth as the pale blue eyes held his. John was relieved to find them clear.

"Breathing may be boring but it is also essential." He stated firmly. "Put it back."

Sherlock ignored him. "You look bloody awful."

John snorted. "Yeah well you don't look to well yourself."

He stood and reached for the mask, ignoring Sherlock's weak glare as he secured it in place. He smirked as his flatmate's eyes drooped heavily as he lost his battle against sleep. Sherlock grasped his wrist stilling his movements.

"Thank you, John."

Warmth pooled within John's chest, pushing away a bit of his weariness as he settled back into the chair beside the bed. "You're welcome."

Sherlock smiled faintly as his eyes slid shut…only to open once more as he turned them toward John.

"Moriarty is still out there." He stated solemnly, his voice muffled by the mask.

The pale eyes held a familiar determination.

"I know." John stated firmly as he settled his hand against Sherlock's arm, just below the IV drip. "We'll get him." He promised quietly.

His flatmate smiled slowly…a familiar smile, as his eyes slipped close.

"Indeed we will." He rasped quietly.

A peaceful silence settled over the room as the detective slipped back into a restful sleep. John watched over him silently. Mycroft had been right about one thing…the war had just begun.

Good vs. Evil.

Holmes vs. Moriarty.

A determined grin stretched across John's face as he settled back into his chair. They had survived and were stronger for it. Moriarty's days were numbered.

Game on.

_Author's note: I never planned to kill off Sherlock…Conan Doyle tried once and look how well it worked for him! Thank you so much for your reviews and favorite tags! I am overwhelmed with the response and happy that you enjoyed this adventure. As always I value your feedback, immensely. Thank you all._

_Until next time…Red _


	7. sequel for Halloween 2012

_Author's Note: I had an idea and couldn't resist writing another Halloween type tale. This one was inspired by a line from the first of Sherlock Holmes movies starring Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law. It is dedicated to the fans and readers of Tick Tock, Drip Drop – in humble thanks of their kind reviews and continued reading. The greatest compliment a writer can receive is that their stories are read and enjoyed. Thank you all. – below is a preview of chapter 1 – which has been posted in its entirety under the title – When the Dead Walk. Hope you enjoy._

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><p><em>And when the dead walk, the living will fill these coffins. – Sherlock Holmes<em>

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><p>The bare branches of the scraggly patch of trees swayed drunkenly with an ominous creaking, reaching downward like giant grasping fingers as a low moan echoed through the park. A nervous twitter of laughter answered, followed by the sound of quickening footfalls as a loitering couple quickened their pace along the well beaten footpath.<p>

It did not do to linger on a night such as this.

A few remaining leaves tugged free and swirled along with the gust of wind as it continued on its way. An abandoned sheet of newsprint slipped from a nearby bench, rustling quietly as it joined the odd dance. It twisted upward like a kite and then hung for a moment on the air, suspended in place as the wind stilled, before twirling toward the ground in an oddly graceful fall. It came to an abrupt halt as the toe of a well worn boot caught its edge, pinning it to the damp earth.

The boot shifted as a gloved hand reached down and plucked the battered paper from the dirt, smoothing it open carefully and angling it toward the yellow glow of a nearby lamp post. A pair of intelligent eyes narrowed beneath the brim of a tweed cap as they studied the large dark print of the headline.

_HEADSMAN SIGHTED IN HYDE PARK_

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade grimaced at the pronouncement. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and pitched it into the nearest bin as he resumed his brisk pace.

Headsman indeed.

Unlike the sensational string of murders that had plagued Hyde Park during the late eighteenth century, the current 'headsman' appeared to be less of a deranged murderer and more likely someone's idea of a Halloween inspired prank. There had been no murders as of yet, no assault...unless a splattering with pumpkin bits counted as such. In fact the whole matter seemed to revolve around a mere handful of reported sightings of a 'ghostly apparition' carousing about the park on horseback.

A _headless_ apparition…on a _glowing _horse.

Not that sightings of this sort were uncommon at this time of year. In fact, they were likely to increase the closer the calendar crept toward the end of October…less than a week away. Already there had been reportings of vampires in the Underground (a promotional for an theater show), thefts attributed to an invisible man (a not so invisible thief and a small monkey), the usual amount ghost and goblins sighted in various parts of the city (greatest number near the cemeteries), a woman who had shot her neighbor's dog after mistaking the wolfhound for a werewolf (or so she insisted)…

….and now one distinctly _American_ folk villain was carousing about in Hyde Park.

Some days he really hated his job…

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><p>Continued in <em>When the Dead Walk…<em>


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